


Rent Day Blues - Day Off

by Heavenward (PreludeInZ), PreludeInZ



Series: Rent Day Blues [3]
Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: F/M, First Responders - Freeform, Poor!Tracys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-17 00:37:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21045416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PreludeInZ/pseuds/Heavenward, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PreludeInZ/pseuds/PreludeInZ
Summary: An experiment in writing a longer form piece within the Rent Day Blues Universe, original posted as part of the short stories associated with the main work. A one-shot style story within RDB, nebulously semi-canon and mainly concerning Gordon and Penelope and a rare day off together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If I could clone myself, one of my clones would be tasked with taking the RDB universe and writing it fully and completely into an episodic series styled after the sort of TV shows that inspired it (ER, Third Watch, 911, etc). Man, that would be a hell of a thing. Sadly there is only one of me. Anyway, as noted in the description, this story has been reposted from the body of its original work, and reformatted to stand alone. Comments made on the main work have been transplanted into screenshots at the end of each chapter.

They _never_ share a day off.

Sometimes Penelope wonders if her boss somehow contrives to do it on purpose, which is ludicrous, of course. Not beyond the pale of the occasional minor cruelties of which Miss Edmunds is certainly capable, but probably intellectually beyond the woman’s capacity. The reality is just that a paramedic works a great deal more than a waitress, and with Gordon’s tendency to pick up extra shifts, Penelope usually spends her days off alone, or out running small errands, doing laundry or getting groceries, or just at home by herself, bored and lonely.

But not today.

Today the only thing she’s woken up to is her boyfriend’s soft snoring, one of his arms still wrapped around her, and the warmth of his presence rather than the chill of his absence on his side of the bed. They’d both gotten home within hours of each other the night before, and gone to bed giddy with the realization that neither of them had an alarm to set for the next morning. There had been an intimate little celebration within the confines of the bedsheets, after which they’d shared a quick shower, then curled up together, spent but happy, and gone to sleep.

And here and now, drowsily drifting in the width and depth of these first few waking minutes—life seems idyllic. The one bedroom of her one bedroom apartment is small, but lately she’s made an effort to make it rather nicer than it was when she’d first arrived. It’s been two years since she came to this country, and while the strangeness of it has never quite worn off, she’s still found a way to make her small part of it into a home. She’s graduated from an air mattress on the floor to a real mattress and boxspring set atop a bedframe. She has two sets of sheets and a heavy quilt for winter, a lighter comforter for spring, and a box fan that gets propped up in the window in the high heat of summer. She’s hung a lace curtain in the window, scavenged a dresser and a chair to sit in the corner and catch her laundry, and tacked up pictures she cut out of a calendar she’d found and liked.

Her bedmate is another invaluable addition. Somehow he makes the place feel more like home than anything else she’s done. The mattress sags in the middle where cheap springs have given up the ghost in protest to the weight of an additional body, but the slight depression just means that gravity pulls the pair of them together in the middle of the bed, and when Penelope rolls lazily over, she can’t help but fit neatly into the hollow right beside him.

Whether he wakes just enough to do so, or whether he does it in his sleep, Gordon sighs softly as she cuddles close, and his arm around her pulls her closer still. It’s only just dawn, and an entire day stretches out ahead of them. The luxuries in Penelope’s life used to be diamonds and couture, day trips to Paris and impulsive flights to the tropics. Only a little more than a year later, and somehow the emptiness of the hours ahead seems more precious than anything she might’ve wasted time or money on, then. And another hour of sleep in the arms of someone who loves her is practically priceless.

* * *

He _cooks_ as well, which is another minor miracle. Penelope, for her own part, can boil water for tea, and then also boil a handful of other things that are not tea, but being a good English girl from good English stock, the extent of her culinary skill basically begins and ends with boiling things.

But sitting at her kitchen table, wearing one of Gordon’s t-shirts, she’s made herself a cup of tea (he’s _not_ allowed to do this for her, even if he offers) and watched him over the rim of it, as he’d raided her fridge, put on an apron (her spare from the cafe, worn cheekily over precious little else and too small besides), and somehow contrived to concoct a pair of omelettes, potato hash, and some sort of lovely sauteed spinach situation out of a handful of things that Penelope otherwise would’ve boiled. These two plates are both set, still steaming hot (something else Penelope somehow never seems to manage, even with all the boiling) on the tabletop before her, and Penelope is forced to make a confession.

“My darling, I’m afraid I have to admit that I’m only sleeping with you every night so that you’ll feed me in the morning,” she tells him, obviously lying, but the sort of playful lying that he likes to play with too, as he pulls out his own chair and sits down next to her, already grinning.

“Oh, that’s all right, babe. Makes me feel less guilty for how I’m only sleeping with you 'cuz it’s better than trying to share a bunkbed on rotating shifts with the rest of my family.”

Penelope smiles and spears a chunk of crispy golden potato on the end of her fork. “Well, so long as it’s mutual.”

“It’s _so_ mutual.”

“Then we’re just fine.”

He pauses, already halfway through his omelette, and clarifies, “Also because I love you, though.”

“Oh, well. Yes, of _course_, darling, I know. I love you too.”

“Okay, good.”

The table is small, and so she doesn’t have far to reach to take his hand, squeezing his fingers. The kitchen isn’t any less shabby than the rest of her (their, really) apartment, but with him here it feels so uncommonly like home that she can almost forget that the kitchen faucet is currently dripping a static tattoo into the sink, and there’s mildew beneath the linoleum and paint flaking from the walls, and in another not so long ago life she hadn’t even known places like this _existed_, let alone that people lived in them.

“So what’s the plan for the day?” Gordon asks, pushing his emptied plate aside, derailing her train of thought before it can gather steam, and switching her onto a new track, and unnecessarily stating the obvious, “We’re never _both_ off for a whole day together.”

The question of the day _is_ the question of the day, and she’s forced to shrug and admit that she isn’t sure. “I’m afraid I don’t quite know, pet. I hadn’t seen your schedule for the week, or I’d have thought something up.”

“Laundry? Groceries?”

Penelope makes a face and kicks him lightly under the table for daring to suggest such mediocrity. “We’re not wasting today on _laundry_ or _groceries_.”

Gordon shrugs, untroubled, moving on from his breakfast to a cup of instant coffee. “Well, I dunno! I’m never around here during the week, I figured I’d make myself useful. I can fix the sink?” He glances over his shoulder. “Dunno how that’s not driving you crazy, I feel like my brain’s being waterboarded.”

Penelope sighs. “Don’t fix the sink. The landlord’s meant to fix the sink.”

Gordon scoffs indignantly at that. “The landlord’s a grade-a thoroughbred horse’s _ass_, Pen, and it’s a _stupid horse_. He’ll give you the runaround for a solid month over a stupid leak that’d take me three minutes, a new washer, and a bit of plumber’s tape to put right.”

Despite his attitude, Penelope stubbornly sticks to her guns, and insists, “It’s the principle. It’s _his_ responsibility, he should take care of it. And it won’t take you three minutes, it’ll take you however long it takes to walk to the hardware store and back, cost you the price of a washer and a roll of plumber’s tape, and then the minor but _not_ insignificant labour of needing to pull the faucet apart and do it yourself. And on your day off besides? You shouldn’t _have to_, darling.”

This is a sound ethical and economic argument, which doesn’t change his mind even slightly, and he rolls his eyes at her, fondly exasperated. “Principles are for rich people,” he points out, “Poor people need to get shit done without handwringing over the ethics. We can walk to the hardware store. We can spend three dollars on a bit of tape and a washer. I can _probably_ sweet talk us into getting the washer for free. No big deal.”

Penelope still hasn’t quite settled into the identity of a poor person, though with the bulk of her paycheck devoured by her rent, and the remnants snapped greedily up by the cost of the other basic necessities, she has to admit that he’s probably got her dead to rights there, and she frowns to herself about it, and concedes the point with a trace of disappointment in her tone, “Well, if you’re going to be so bloody _stubborn_ about it.”

He winces at her displeasure, softens slightly, revising his proposal, “But…maybe we could go for a walk to the park that just happens to be by the hardware store, instead. Popping in to grab a couple things we _happen_ to need can be, like, incidental to the fact that we’re gonna go for a walk in the park on our day off. Just on principle. And I’ll only fix the sink if we don’t come up with something better to do. Because _principles_.”

This is mollifying, somewhat, and Penelope certainly wouldn’t object to a walk. She walks to catch the bus every day, and it’s gotten to the point that her day feels incomplete without at least a couple blocks worth of walking. Besides that, it’s properly spring, and the park he means is near the college campus, with well-maintained pathways crossing throughout, and dotted with butterfly gardens well and truly on their way into bloom. It’s a satisfactory offer, on the whole. “Might we feed the ducks in the park? Just on principle?”

“_Only_ on principle. No other reason.”

“Such an indulgent little luxury, principles,” she teases lightly.

Gordon finishes off his coffee. “Love that you have 'em. I can’t afford 'em. Finish your breakfast and we’ll go see some ducks about some bread, and then a guy about a washer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previous Comments: 
> 
> https://imgur.com/xfieSoT


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "time to take a break from [talented amateurs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11938179/chapters/26986629)" i said. time to instead write a straight up 2k words of an RDB side story in order to _relax_. 
> 
> anyway, this thing continues!
> 
> love from, prelude

The ducks were not given bread, but a half a bag of halfway defrosted frozen peas that thawed the rest of the way in Gordon’s pocket on the walk to the park, during which Penelope was sternly informed that giving bread to ducks was terrible for them, in actual fact, and that it was something of a colloquialism and never meant to be taken literally.

And as it happened, after happening by the hardware store, on the way home they had further occasion to happen by Penelope’s cafe for a couple cups of coffee to go, and to pick up some forms Penelope’s been told she needs in order to file her taxes. John’s offered to help her with this, as he had last year, and had expressed some mild shock and disapproval that she hadn’t been provided with hers as of the middle of February.

It’s a slow part of the day, but Miss Edmunds still mans the till as usual, and looks up with her usual bright smile when the bell above the cafe door chimes cheerfully, though this freezes into falsehood when she spots Penelope. Despite the fact that she’s the one to write the schedule, Miss Edmunds still seems to take some sort of nebulous personal offense whenever her employees have a day off, and there’s a hardening of her gaze as she calls a greeting across the store, “Well, _hey_ there, Sugar. What brings _you_ in today?”

“I"m told it’s called a W-2,” Penelope answers, just as bright and sweet, and with an added infusion of confidence from the way Gordon has his arm looped casually around her shoulders. Virgil has reliably informed her that fire cannot be fought with fire, but Penelope’s discovered that sickly saccharine niceties are best answered equally, and that a certain quality of airheaded friendliness serves her best on the frontlines of the waitressing world. “It’s for taxes,” she adds, as though this fact could be possibly be lost on a business owner.

Miss Edmunds’ smile flickers into a frown and there’s a narrowing of her eyes that Penelope’s grown accustomed to, before they grow wide with something that’s presumably meant to look like innocence. “Why, hon, I’m sure those went out weeks ago. Ain’t you got yours?”

Gordon’s hand on her shoulder drops to her hip and there’s the tiniest little squeeze of his fingers, encouragement or a warning, Penelope isn’t sure. She needs neither, and if Miss Edmunds’ answer is the parry, then her reply is an elegant riposte, a concerned little frown of her own, and a shake of her head. “No, not yet. I’m told it’s rather important than I have it—are you _quite_ sure they’ve gone out?”

Fencing used to be an occasional occurrence in Penelope’s long ago life, and so she’s aware that the sudden addition of another fencer, who softly clears her throat from polishing the espresso machine the counter and then buries a poniard in the kidneys of one’s opponent is probably a technical foul. But the other waitress working today is Amelia Moffat, “Moffie” on her nametag, and she pipes up, “Actually, Miss Edmunds, I haven’t gotten anything either.”

A combined assault from two of her employees and the watchful eye of a functional customer are enough to force the issue, and as Miss Edmunds huffs softly to herself, Penelope and Moffie exchange a genuine smile. Moffie even risks a wink into the polished reflection of the espresso machine, as Miss Edmunds allows herself to grow slightly flustered, but still as sugarcoated as ever, spinning excuses like cotton candy, “Well, if any of you girls had the knack for paperwork, I might not get so behind. And the office is in just the most _ridiculous_ state, I don’t know how you expect me to—”

“I’ll watch the front with Moffie while you take a look,” Penelope offers smoothly, dangling the prospect of five (though more likely ten to fifteen) minutes of free labour like bait on a string. “It’s the least I can do.”

Penelope imagines that at least part of the search of Miss Edmunds’ small office will somehow magically transform into a smoke break in the alley behind the cafe, but she doesn’t especially care. “Oh well _of course_, sweetheart, if you really think it might’ve slipped my mind, I’ll go take a look.” There’s a honeyed little laugh as she slips out from around the front counter, and then, ostensibly joking, she wags a finger and warns, “So long as you don’t go trying to claim it on your taxes.”

As Miss Edmunds vanishes into the back, Moffie’s already started tamping down the grounds for two shots of espresso, and Penelope gives Gordon a light peck on the cheek before circling obligingly around to the far side of the counter, while he takes a seat at one of the barstools. She feels a little out of place out of her usual pink uniform, without her apron and with her boyfriend grinning at her like an idiot. She waits until she hears the sound of the office door closing before she shakes her head at him, “_Stop_.”

“I hadn’t started!” Gordon protests, and toys with a loose sugar packet he’s found on the counter. “S’just, though, since you’ve gone and _got_ me started—it’s cattier in here than the local animal shelter, Pen. _Jesus_.”

“Pissier, too,” Moffie mutters from behind the counter, and there’s a solid thunk as she slots two loaded portafilters into the espresso machine, and turns to flash a weary grin, only to discover Gordon has solemnly put a hand up and is awaiting a high five, which she gives him quickly, with a guilty glance towards the back office.

“Nice,” Gordon tells her, with a grin and a wink that makes Moffie blush and has Penelope roll her eyes again, as she pops the till open and absently begins to count her way through the drawer. It’s a slow afternoon, and it shows, but it’s her day off, so she doesn’t care.

“Double-Americano,” Moffie starts, because by this point she knows Gordon’s order as well as Penelope does, but she pauses and gives Penelope a long look before hazarding a guess, “…London Fog? Ooh, no, whipped mocha? It seems like a mocha kind of day for you. Were you on your way on campus?”

Penelope pauses at that, halfway through counting out a stack of ugly American money, confused. Moffie is a student working part-time at the cafe, and has far more frequent occasion to be on the nearby university campus than Penelope does. “No? Why, is there something on?”

Moffie’s eyes brighten at that and she points across the cafe to a flier tacked up on the noticeboard, some poster done up in bright greens and yellow, announcing the arrival of spring and the intent to celebrate it. “Remember? The _party_.” She says the word as though it’s a hallowed and coveted event and the longing in her voice is equal parts jealousy and suspicion, “You mean you’re _not_ going?”

“I don’t recall being invited?”

“When he put the poster up!” Moffie insists, and returns her attention to the espresso machine, busily pulling one shot and then the next into a waiting coffee cup. “We were both working, he said we should both come. _You_ know. The tall one? Curly hair? Large half-caff latte with extra foam, two pumps of macadamia syrup? Calls you _English_, calls me _Irish_?” Moffie giggles at the pet names, and Penelope risks a glance at Gordon—who isn’t exactly the jealous type, but equally has a well-earned distaste for both college students and the skeevier members of the cafe’s clientele—but he seems more amused than anything, and he puts his hands up defensively when he catches her looking.

“Don’t look at me, babe, I’ve been told off too many times for trying to white knight while you’re at work. You handle your own creeps.”

“Oh, he’s not a _creep_,” Moffie says hastily, offering Gordon his coffee and turning to Penelope for backup. “No, he’s one of the nice ones.”

If there’s a spectrum of their customers, then the one Moffie refers to definitely falls nearer to the nicer end than the creepy end, but Penelope’s never found it flattering to be flirted with at work, even if it’s done “nicely”. She shrugs and returns the drawer to the till, sliding it closed. “He’s fine. But I don’t know his name and I didn’t know he’d invited us anywhere, never mind a party.”

“What kinda party?” Gordon asks, glancing over his shoulder at the indicated bulletin board and associated flier. “Just your stock standard college thing? Bad booze and worse decisions?” He pauses, and then there’s an almost wistful note in his tone, as he comments, “…I haven’t been to a college party in _forever_.”

Penelope looks up at this, and then over at the sign on the noticeboard, reminding him, “…you were at a college party last week, you came home absolutely _reeking_ of stale vomit and cheap beer.”

Gordon amends the statement, “I haven’t been to a college party where some stupid college kid didn’t give themselves alcohol poisoning and barf all over me in _forever_. Just _once_, I’d like to be the one who gets to barf _on_ a stupid college kid. I think I’ve suctioned enough cheap-beer-flavoured vomit out of stupid college kids to be able to say that I’ve earned that.”

“Do you want to go?” Penelope surprises herself with asking, because deep down she finds that she doesn’t, really. Even if it would make a break from the mundanity of her usual days off, and certainly be preferable to going home and fixing the sink, she feels an unfamiliar trepidation at the prospect, as she admits, “…I don’t think I’ve been to an American party before.”

Moffie claps her hands excitedly at this, and exclaims, “Oh, then you _have_ to! I can’t, I’m still on 'til 5, and I think Miss Edmunds scheduled me specifically so I _couldn’t_ go—but _you_ should! And you wouldn’t even have to go _alone_? You’ll have fun, and you can both relax a bit, and maybe meet some new friends…”

Gordon seizes on the idea, nodding his agreement, “…I think she might be right, Pen, I think we _kinda_ have to.” It’s impossible not to perceive the excitement in Gordon now. It had been subtle before, nostalgic, but now that the prospect seems to be coalescing before them, he seems to be picking up steam. “Oh man, though…you’ve _never_ been to a frat party? This sounds like a good ol’ fashioned frat party. I guess maybe they don’t have those in England. They’re fun. They’re _stupid_ but they’re fun, and hey, free booze! Oh man. Have you ever played beer pong? D’you know what a kegstand is? D’you believe me when I say I can _totally_ do one?”

Well.

Penelope doesn’t know what either of those things are, but it’s a moot point. They’re going now, because she hasn’t seen Gordon this excited about something since his ambulance got a new defibrillator, and she circles out from behind the counter, to lean up against the barstool where he’s perched, and insinuate herself into his arms. He kisses her briefly, tasting just exactly like espresso, and grins when reaches over to take a sip of his coffee, making a face and then setting it back on the countertop, as she inquires, “How much is a cab home, after you’ve gotten very drunk and vomited on some unfortunate college student?”

“Like a few bucks, maybe like six? I’ve got like twenty in my wallet.”

“And the coffee’s on the house,” Moffie adds eagerly, as though a three dollar coffee would’ve been the deciding factor.

They’re going, it’s certain now, but Penelope has to at least _seem_ to be playing hardball, if she wants to maintain any kind of reputation. She reaches up to flick a fingertip against Gordon’s nose, as she interrogates him further, “_If_ we go—will you have _fun_…and _not_ fuss and fret and try to do the job you’re meant to be off from at every available turn? Even in the middle of a whole houseful of people making terrible decisions?”

“Well, I was kinda figuring on being one of 'em.”

“Is my sink going to get fixed?”

“I can fix your sink drunk, standing on one foot, with one hand tied behind my back,” Gordon declares, and pulls her into his lap, now kissing her neck, and the hell with the fact that Moffie is right there, watching, with that dreamy, envious smile she sometimes gets when Gordon comes by after work. “If I remember right, you were the one who kicked up a big moral hissy fit about how I _shouldn’t_ have to fix your sink on my day off. Well, it’s _our_ day off, and I think we oughta make the most of it. Let’s go! Let’s crash a party. We’ll have fun. Promise.”

“Oh, well then. So long as you _promise_.”

Gordon smiles and kisses her one last time, before solemnly making the gesture to go with the words, “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previous Comments:
> 
> https://imgur.com/cn3ELyd


	3. Chapter 3

It’s not her kind of party.

She can tell before they even cross the threshold, because the music blaring from inside the house just off the local campus is loud enough to be heard from _outside_ the house, and bassy enough to make her teeth ache where they’ve locked together behind the smile she wears for Gordon’s benefit.

Because he’s just _puppyishly_ excited to be here, she can tell in the way he telegraphs his body language, the movement of his eyes roaming over the part of the party that’s spilled out onto the lawn—red solo cups and bikini’d co-eds and some sort of situation involving a ping pong table and both of the aforementioned—and up to the towering fraternity house on a corner lot at the top of a low hill, three stories tall, and with a banner plastered over the doorway declaring this to be the kickoff to spring.

Spring, in Penelope’s experience, is not something to be actively celebrated so much as quietly appreciated, but she’s also learned that Americans need very little by way of an excuse, and this includes her darling and beloved boyfriend, who lingers briefly, longingly, as they pass the ping pong and beer situation, on their way into the house up a set of crumbling old brick steps and onto porch that wraps around the front of the house.

This is a converted Victorian, a simply beautiful old building just on the other side of campus from Penelope’s cafe. It’s been painted a shade of pale green at some point in its history, the trim a dark pine colour. The windows look to be original, which might be why they tremor in the window frames with the rattle of the bass from the music inside. The front door is wide open, taken off its hinges and put aside somewhere, to accomodate the traffic of people in and out of the house.

If this _were_ Penelope’s kind of party, the first order of business would be to find the host and thank them profusely for the invitation, gushing liberally about the venue and the guests and the food. But instead she’s at a loss as soon as she crosses the threshold, because the swarm of people is disorienting. If she clings a little to Gordon’s hand as they move inward, he could hardly blame her, and in fact moves prudently, shepherding her so she’s on the inside, nearer the wall of the front hallway as he takes her aside. He puts an arm around her shoulder and bows his head to casually kiss her cheek, contriving at the same time to be just loud enough for her to hear him, as he says, “We don’t need to stay, Pen, if you’re not feeling it.”

Penelope isn’t—but equally she’s not about to be the reason they leave, after only just getting in the door. “No,” she protests immediately, and smiles her best and brightest smile, “We only just got here. I’m just—I’m going to need to acclimate, somewhat. I’m sure there are people here I know, and once I’ve got my bearings and sorted myself out, I’m sure I’ll be fine. It’s just—_loud_.”

Gordon nods, far and away wiser than she is in the ways of the college frat party, as he continues, “Uh huh. And crowded and sweaty and full of cheap beer and cheaper food, not to mention a horde of college kids, who are only gonna get drunker the longer we stay. And _I_ don’t mind it—hell, it beats the shit outta fixing your sink on a Saturday afternoon, and I’m getting a giddy little buzz on from just being on the inside of one of these stupid fucking things instead of rolling up with the bu—but if you’re even the tiniest little bit unhappy here, Penny, then I’m not gonna have any fun.”

If he means to reassure her that they can go the instant she’s unhappy—it has the opposite effect, and makes Penelope feel as though she’d be just the absolute worst sort of wet blanket if she were to want to leave. He’s being dreadfully sweet and he’s entirely earnest, and so Penelope matches him for sincerity as she smiles, and stretches up to the tips of her tennis shoes to press a kiss against his lips, and then tell him so. “You’re far too good to me,” she says, and means it. “I want you to have fun, with your cheap beer and terrible food and drunken college kids. I’m just fine, darling. I’m sure I’ll find someone I know sooner or later.”

Gordon squeezes her hand gently, and makes a suggestion, “How 'bout I go grab food and drinks, and you head back outside? It’s quieter on the porch, and you can watch people showing up, see if you see anyone you wanna say hi to. Sound like a plan?”

“A very good plan,” Penelope agrees, and squeezes his fingers in return. “I’ll see you outside, then.”

Even with this said, he still escorts her out the door, his hand lingering on her elbow until she’s safely back outside, and wandering down the length of the porch. It _is_ quieter out here, and though most of the outside seating—porch swings and rocking chairs and hammocks—is occupied, just as many people are leaning against the railing, and at the far end of the porch, she spots someone she knows.

She’s a little too excited by the lifeline of a familiar figure do the mental calculus that ways the cost/benefit of this particular social interaction, calling across the porch as she approaches, “Kate!”

Katherine Kavanagh is a journalism student, and her sharply asymetrical bob flicks along her cheekbones as she looks up from the screen of her phone, and the rapidfire texting with which she’d been engaged. For a split second her expression is frozen in a moment of shocked disdain, a lack of recognition for the person calling her name—and then some synapse fires and a circuit completes, and her features morph into a mask of bland tolerance, as she exclaims, “Oh, _Poppy_! From the cafe? Because it’s _Kat_, actually. You might remember from the side of my coffee cup.”

“Penny,” Penelope corrects, as her own smile freezes slightly at the memory of who she’s actually recognized, as she recites, “Four shot extra large soy latte with one pump each vanilla agave and sugar free butterscotch syrup, no whip, extra 2% foam.”

“That’s me,” Kat confirms, smirking, and for a moment seems to carry out the same internal calculation Penelope had, rather more transparently, with a narrowing of her eyes and the very tiniest frown, before her smile widens again and she pats the railing next to her, apparently deciding that Penelope’s company is preferable to sullen solitude. “Isn’t it just the _worst_ party? I’m covering it for the school paper. I don’t know what they want me to _say_.”

“My boyfriend wanted to come,” Penelope confesses, in lieu of an explicit agreement. Despite everything, she _does_ want to try and find some way to enjoy herself, and outward positivity seems like the best way to achieve that.

Kat, predictably, pounces on this tidbit of personal information. “I didn’t know you had a _boyfriend_.” She leans in, conspiratorial, her voice falsely hushed as she asks, “Is it a green card thing?”

Too late, Penelope remembers that she dislikes Kat Kavanagh not because of her obnoxiously complex coffee order, but because of her frankly horrifying lack of tact, masquerading as hard-nosed journalism, which in itself is only the guise of a gossip-monger, born and bred. Suddenly this is more like one of Penelope’s kind of parties than it was a moment ago, and her smile tremors just slightly as she falsifies a little laugh of her own. “Well, honestly, I only sleep with him so he’ll make me breakfast in the morning.”

“_Ha_.” This seems like the sort of statement that’s correctly calibrated for Kat’s sense of humour, and she accompanies her little snort of laughter with a glass—well, a red solo cup—lifted in Penelope’s direction. “I’ll drink to that, sister.”

“Mmm.” Penelope has no drink of her own to answer with, and hasn’t yet accepted Kat’s invitation to take a seat on the railing at the edge of the porch. She glances over her shoulder, back towards the doorway, hoping for Gordon to make an appearance and provide her an exit. She’s not sure where she’ll go next, and at present Kat presents a better option than mingling in a crush of strangers inside the house, where the bass still pounds against the windows—but not by much.

“_So_. On the subject of green cards, English, let’s talk immigration. I’m sure _you’re_ being here is all perfectly above board and legal, but you’ve gotta have some kinda opinion about illegals. Wanna gimme a quote?”

Not by a longshot, actually.


	4. Chapter 4

There’s no way in the world she’d ever lose him to Kat, though she _does_ lose him to the stupid game of what she supposes must be beer pong, just the same as she’d lost her bottle of water to some stupid nineteen year old drunkard. This specific unfortunate has been deposited on the front steps, with instructions to “chill a minute, bro, drink your water and stay where I can see you” as Gordon magnanimously subs into his new friend’s place at the beer pong table, in order to defuse an argument between two already tipsy teams about the consequences of losing a player. To his credit, before he commits, Gordon _does_ ask her permission, with his hands wrapped around the balusters of the porch balustrade, looking imploringly up at her with those big brown eyes, as he promises that it’ll be just 'til the end of the game, already halfway over, and that she can stay and watch, or come play the next one if she wants to, since she’s so good at shotgunning beer and all.

Penelope declines, but she’s careful to do so with gentle good humour and apparent amusement, equal parts tolerant and supportive. This _was_ the goal, after all, for Gordon to enjoy himself, and she can tell that he’s well on his way. Still, she shakes her head and smiles down at him, like Juliet on the balcony with Romeo languishing in the courtyard below, though she’s only about three feet off the ground, leaning on the railing above him. “No, darling. Have fun. I’m going to go find more food, since _someone_ so carelessly flipped my entire plate out of my hands, owing to his apparently _dire_ need to kiss me. There were pretzel sticks and cheezies everywhere. It was carnage.”

The bars of the balustrade creak slightly as he plants a foot at the edge of the porch, and hauls himself up so that he can kiss her again, leaning over the railing and just barely keeping his balance. Penelope doesn’t quite know enough about the general vibe of this party to perceive it, just yet, but with their tendency towards _flagrant_ PDA, the pair of them are rapidly becoming _that_ particular couple at this particular party, and they weren’t even really _invited_.

“Don’t fall,” she chides, catching hold of his arm once he eases off, though he doesn’t make a move to step back down.

“Wouldn’t.”

“Might.”

“Nah. You gonna go get food?”

“And more water.” She flicks his nose with a fingertip. “Someone took mine.”

His nose scrunches up slightly (adorably), as he glances automatically back towards his charge on the stairs, and nobly protests, “Good cause, Pen.”

“Stop _working_, Gordon.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

“Love you, though.”

“Mm. You too.”

“Be good.”

“Be back?” And then, bright-eyed, and hopeful, “Bring me another shot?”

She steps on on the bottom rail of the balcony, pecks a final kiss against the tip of his nose, and gives his shoulder a shove, as though she can’t wait to be rid of him. “Be patient.”

And as much as she’s able, in nothing better than her weekend jeans and her favourite silk blouse, Penelope flounces away, leaves him behind, knows that he’s watching her leave, and her with nowhere else to go but where she’d said she would. It’s not far from the edge of the porch to the front door of the house, and somehow the press of the crowd seems to have subsided slightly as people have finished arriving, acquired food and drink and distributed themselves throughout the house. Even the music doesn’t seem quite as offensively loud. Penelope disappears inside, flushed only just a little bit with the very beginnings of a buzz and armed with the knowledge that there is a fridge full of bottled water waiting, if she can only make her way from the front door to the back of the house.

Should be simple enough.

She’s lost Kat, mercifully, and apparently radiates an aura of sufficient anonymity to slip unmolested through the party at large. Penelope feels rather as though she’s undercover, somehow, a spy in the midst of a foreign country, with which her own nation holds no _active_ hostilities, but could still do to be better informed of the internal workings thereof. She wouldn’t have come here of her own accord, and certainly wouldn’t have gone solo, nor even with Moffie, not even if she’d begged. And while she’s not quite _happy_ to be here, just yet, but she’s happy that Gordon can be, because it’s the sort of social situation to which he takes like a duck to water. Penelope’s not an introvert, exactly, but Gordon is an extrovert, emphatically, and she’s glad that he can be here, recharging his social batteries.

The main floor of the house is quartered into four large rooms, centered around the front hallway, with its staircase up to the second floor. This is crowded with people, drinking and talking, and therefore functionally inaccessible. To her right is the dining room, to her left is the parlour, each leading back into the kitchen and living room, respectively. As she moves into the dining room, she finds it surprisingly bare inside, furniture pushed back from its usual places to make room for floor traffic, two long tables along the wall spread with food. Partially empty pizza boxes crowd one end, and the rest is a cluster of opened bags of assorted snack foods. The walls are adorned with posters and banners and the repeating trio of greek letters: Pi Zeta Tau.

Opposite the makeshift buffet, the afternoon’s libations are being distributed by a tall, broad-shouldered brunet, hair down to his shoulders and his face all scruffy with stubble, but for a rather well-kempt mustache. He seems to have taken charge of a truly massive keg, nestled in a kiddie pool full of ice, perched atop a rickety card table, like the stainless steel egg of some massive bird. Along the wall beside him, a row of red and white coolers are lined up like soldiers, each with a little white index card taped up above them, indicating the contents of each.

Penelope manages to acquire another little bowl of pretzel sticks (she passes the cheezies by and wrinkles her nose at the slabs of congealing pizza left after the initial feeding frenzy) and selects a bottle of Guinness from one of the coolers. The man manning the keg grins at her and flashes her a thumbs up, presumably in approval of her taste.

Thus (meagerly) provisioned, Penelope drifts out of the dining room and back through the front hallway, pretending at the hope that she might find somewhere to sit and someone to talk to. For a moment she wavers on the edge of going back outside, but Kat may still be lurking around, and she doesn’t want to hover too closely to Gordon, making him feel as though she’s founding nothing better to occupy herself. Not when he’s having fun. She decides to give him half an hour before checking in on him again, and in the parlour manages to find an out of the way corner to sit down with her beer and her pretzels, and while away some time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previous Comments:
> 
> https://imgur.com/0uo4UmL


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

In the end, it’s only twenty minutes later that she checks in, and finds that the game is not over, and furthermore is still occupying enough of Gordon’s attention that he doesn’t even look up to notice her, watching from the open doorway. He’s garnered a crowd of spectators, and there’s a great deal of laughter and rauccous cheering, and even at a distance she can see how much he adores being at the center of attention. It takes a concerted effort not to sulk about this, though the fact that he’s so obviously having fun is enough to take the edge off, and after watching him for a little while, eventually she slips away unnoticed.

Another ten minutes wall-flowering through the house, and she remembers about the back porch, and its legendary supply of bottled water. The house is still crowded and the music is still loud, but she’s (grudgingly) acclimated, and it doesn’t bother her as much as it had. Her pretzels are gone, but she still has her half full bottle of guinness, sweating in her hands. And, if she’s deliberate about it, she can pay more attention to the house than the party, wandering through the rooms admiring the coffers of the vaulted ceilings, the intricacy of the crown moulding. The bannister of the staircase curving up to the second floor—this must not be as off-limits as she’d assumed, because she can hear voices drifting down the stairwell—is beautifully carved, and even if the house has fallen into the posession of a local fraternity, clearly _someone_ has been taking care of the bones of it.

Back through the dining room and into the kitchen, and Penelope learns what Jello shots are, by the sheer volume of tiny little cups, all brightly coloured, apparently representing every single imaginable hue, and brimming with what she suddenly realizes is _jelly_, in her native parlance. The connection had sat on the surface of her brain, but hadn’t penetrated until a visual aid was provided, because the notion that jelly is something that would be A) willingly eaten by anyone older than eight years of age outside of a hospital setting and B) _combined with liquor_ is at once baffling and yet diabolical in its genius. It’s also a perfect explanation for why Gordon hadn’t managed to get through the kitchen without downing two of the little rainbow bastards, as they seem exactly calibrated to his specific tastes and preferences.

But she’s only come into the kitchen on her way to the mythical back porch, which she finds her way into through a short back hallway, the dimmer, darker, dimminutive opposite to the front hallway, with nothing more than a small half bathroom and what must have once been the back door, but which has since been boxed in by an addition at some stage of the house’s life.

The back porch seems to mostly be used for storage. The door is closed, and she needs to shove it slightly to get it open and slip inside, as something large and plastic and reeking of vinyl is stuffed behind the swing of it. Once through, the place is dim in the shaded side of the house, and narrow, almost more of a hallway than a proper room. The interior walls are unfinished, and the porch itself is dusty and creaky, boxed in by screens that have seen far better days than this one. The fridge, perhaps fittingly, is of a vintage that seems to predate the modern standards of refrigeration, all curved and chromed and vaguely art deco in style. But when she pulls it open, the air inside is chill, and the shelves are mostly bare, but for a half-emptied carton of water bottles, shrouded in torn-open shrinkwrap, and gleaming like diamonds inside. Penelope seizes one gratefully, and then closes the fridge door again.

It’s _much_ quieter out here. It’s dingy and dusty and cluttered, it reeks of must and mildew, and there’s nowhere to sit—but it’s quiet. The walls of the house are thick, and the door back inside is shut tightly, and there’s something about the warm stillness of the place that Penelope prefers infinitely to the alternative, and peering towards the far end of the porch, she spies another door, leading out back. Her hands are full now, with one water bottle and one half-empty beer bottle—but she gamely downs the rest of her beer, and sets the empty atop the fridge. With her right hand freed, she gingerly picks her way through the clutter that fills the space—including the half-a-foosball-table that Gordon had mentioned, decrepit in the corner nearest the door—and pushes this open.

She doesn’t step outside, and luckily for her, because the set of steps that extend downward towards the untamed backyard end a full four feet off the ground, snapped off at some point in the distant past, by the way the broken wood has weathered at their terminus. Penelope examines this cautiously, and then gingerly puts her foot on the top step, testing her weight against it. When it seems solid, she carefully stands on it, still clinging to the doorframe with her free hand. She steps onto the lowest remaining step, waits a few moments to ensure its stability, and then primly sits down, letting her legs swing from the edge. The lawn drops away steeply below, sloping down against the weathered foundation of the house, though the weeds have grown high and thick enough that they brush the bottoms of her shoes. The whole yard is overgrown, green and lush and wild, and a welcome change.

Two beers are enough for her to feel the respectable beginnings of a warm, pleasant buzz, and content in her respite, Penelope withdraws her phone from her pocket and scrolls idly through its contents. For awhile she contents herself with news and gossip sites and the social profiles of people she hasn’t spoken to in years, secretly pored over. She plays a few little games (watering imaginary crops, feeding imaginary kittens, trying and failing to come up with a word even make the tiniest dent in John’s 79 point lead in their latest scrabble game). She passes the time pleasantly alternating between idle distractions, until her battery starts to look dismal—which admittedly never takes as long as it should—and then she puts it away, and sips at her water, just sitting.

And It’s nice. She’s worn jeans and her favourite blouse today—one of the last remaining pieces of the wardrobe she’d brought from home, Givenchy, pure ivory silk, and its value when purchased measurable in rent checks—and it’s a lovely day. Early spring, warm but not too warm. Behind the bulk of the towering three-storey house, the sounds of the campus and the city seem distant, and she can hear birdsong from the other lots that cluster around this one. And she’s grown so used to the sound of the bass rattling from inside the house that it barely registers anymore.

There’s something thrilling about going to a party and then deliberately opting out of active attendance. Once upon a time, Penelope’s presence at a party was an essential part of an entire social economy, a veritable stock index of who was who, and what was going on, and where was worth being. Her attendance at any given event was a currency all its own, representing political influence, power, leverage. Once upon at time, all Penelope had to do was show up and be seen, and it would send ripples through the entire glittering world around her.

Now, no one cares. And there’s a luxury in that, too.

Or, no one, that is, except the person who sends her a single frantic text from Gordon, fully half an hour later, reading:

`hey!!! wyg? :( :( :( please come back I miss you </3"`

And this is enough to summon her back into the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previous Comments:
> 
> https://imgur.com/oywkr1f


	6. Chapter 6

She finds him not where she’d left him out on the lawn, but now holding court in the middle of the living room, surrounded by a bevy of brand new friends, all clustered on a nearby couch, or sat on the floor around a low slung coffee table. And Penelope _would_ be amazed by the way an entire room can orient itself around him, except she remembers when the same thing used to happen to her.

He still has his phone in hand, but he hasn’t looked up to notice her entrance, so if he’d been at all concerned by her absence, it wasn’t enough for him to want to break off and go looking for her. One of the leftover parts of herself from her long ago life wants to be annoyed with him for his inattention, for not doting on her the entire time—but the version of her living this new life values his happiness too highly, and Gordon is always happiest at the center of attention.

“I’m right here, darling.” She makes this announcement as she picks her way through the crowd surrounding Gordon, and puts herself too near not to notice. Slipping up from behind, she seats herself on the arm of the armchair he’s chosen, reaching out to brush a hand through his hair as he turns in response to her presence. One of his arms loops automatically around her waist and he leans over, looking up at her with nothing less than rapturous adoration, glossy brown eyes and that crooked smile she likes to kiss off his lips, though she refrains, as generally she prefers to do this in private.

He shares no such scruples, and pulls her bodily off the chair and into his lap, nuzzling his face against her neck in a manner that borders on the inappropriate, especially considering their audience. He seems not to care in the slightest. “Heyyy! There’s my girl! Where’d you go, Penny-ante? Missed you.”

Penelope rolls her eyes at the nickname, but fondly ruffles her fingertips through his hair. “Narnia,” she replies lightly, answering around the truth of her brief and secretive escape from the party at large and changing the subject, observing yet another half full solo cup, occupying his other hand. “Are you terribly drunk, love?”

“_Hm_. Nnnnnot…_terribly_. I _do_ know terrible, and babydoll, I think we both know this ain’t it. _Pretty_ drunk though, Pen, not gonna lie.” He grins at her about this, proud and pleased with himself. “S’just because of how I _won_ though. I am the _best_ at beer pong.”

“Congratulations.”

“_Thank_ you.”

From her vantage point atop his lap, she gains some insight into his current audience—and feels suddenly surrounded by children, baby-faced college students, all probably around three or four years her junior and in various states of inebriation, and all of them staring at her as though she’s interrupted something. Before she can entirely parse the feeling, one of them, seated on the floor at Gordon’s feet, actually reaches over to tug his pant leg, asking, “Are you gonna finish the wood chipper story?”

And as quickly as she’d landed in his lap, Penelope scrambles for leverage against the arms of the chair and bounces to her feet. Gordon looks up at her, startled and dismayed by her sudden departure, but nowhere near as dismayed as she is. She protests, as though her objection might make it true, “You’re _not_ telling horrible work stories.”

“_Awesome_ work stories,” one of the clustered gaggle corrects reverently, to the general agreement of the general assembly, and then, earnestly, “Your boyfriend is _such a badass_.”

Her boyfriend is currently grinning so wide his face might break, but he shrugs, suddenly sheepish, and deflects, “Aw, I dunno, I’m just a guy with a job I don’t mind talking about. And just, y’know, like just the _interesting_ stuff, Pen, like the highlight reel. I was in the middle of the wood chipper story—”

Penelope feels herself shudder compulsively at the sheer horror of the memory, and she holds up to a hand to stop him from continuing.

“'Cuz I already told 'em 'bout that time with the guy and the—”

Penelope clamps her hands childishly over her ears, so that her own voice is muffled as she cuts him off, “Gordon Cooper Tracy, if the next word you say is ‘_chainsaw_’…”

Gordon shuts up, and his grin gains a guilty cast as she unstops her ears to shake her head at him, fiercely disapproving. “I’m not staying in earshot for the rest of your highlight reel. I’ll come back.”

“But what about the one with the shop vac and the city councilman and the prostitute? You laughed at that one.”

Penelope shakes her head again, spares a glance towards Gordon’s enraptured audience, who are all silently willing her to depart, and promptly. “I am especially not staying for the one with the shop vac and the city councilman and the prostitute. Hearing that once was enough for a lifetime.”

“Aww…”

“It’s fine, darling. I’ll go get you some water.” She takes a moment to lightly kiss his forehead, and his hand runs absently up the outside of her thigh, lingering for a moment at her waist, and she can feel the way he wants to draw her close so she doesn’t leave again. Penelope smiles fondly at him, flicks the tip of his nose with a fingertip. “Actually, as I recall, I said I’d bring you another shot.”

“Ooh, yes please.” Now he does draw her closer, into a little half hug with his head tilted against her hip. “I mean, if you don’t mind. That’d be good. You’re the best. I love you.”

“And then water.”

His fingertips drum on the side of his still half-full solo cup and she can see him consider an objection, but for now, nominally at least, he agrees with a non-committal, “Mmhm.”

Penelope will press the point later, but for now she lets him believe that he’s not quite done drinking for the afternoon. “Come find me when you’re done telling work stories, love, if I haven’t come back before then.”

“You betcha.”

She leaves him again, drifting away through the party and in no particular hurry to come back, especially if he’s making his way through the retinue of the most shocking calls of his career thus far. Penelope has had the dubious pleasure of being the first one to hear the majority of these stories, and as stated, once was generally enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previous Comments:
> 
> https://imgur.com/gYicxcx


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RDB is just an excuse for me to find interesting niche roles for assorted NPCS, tbh.

Penelope does a few more laps of the party at large—the kitchen, the dining room, the parlour, out to the porch and then back again—just to pass some time. The party isn’t bad, it’s just not really her speed, and though she’s gotten used to the noise and the crowd and the general feeling of the place, she still isn’t enjoying herself. Gordon is, but he won’t if he finds out she isn’t, so she contents herself with keeping her distance.

She wanders back through the dining room a third time, and on this occasion catches the attention of the man running the beer keg.

He catches Penelope staring, and beams at her from across the room. “Hey!”

“Hello,” Penelope responds with a small smile of her own, still shy outside of her natural environment, but incapable of being anything but polite in response to the greeting, especially from the closest thing to a host that she’s encountered yet. “It’s a lovely party,” she adds automatically.

“Thanks! D’you wanna drink?”

“I might,” Penelope answers cautiously, casting an eye over the coolers along the wall. “Depends what’s on offer.”

The man—and in a party that has so far emphatically been populated by college _kids_, he is very obviously an adult—seems delighted by her interest. “And I’d be just thrilled to tell you. Can I get a peek at your ID real quick, though? I think I missed you last time ‘round, just wanna double check.’”

Penelope blinks at this, slightly thrown by the responsibility of the gesture, and then—“Can I get a peek at yours?” she counters automatically, unused to the scrutiny, even as her hand goes to the pocket of her jeans, and the small wallet she carries when she leaves her purse at home.

“You bet!” And a student ID card flashes up in his hand, identifying him as Barrett Bell, three years her senior. “I like your accent,” he adds, and earns points for his choice of compliment.

Backed into a corner by social convention, Penelope displays her own ID, and Barrett nods his approval, making a grand gesture towards the coolers against the wall, “Take your pick! I recommend the IPA.”

As this is offered, despite the fact that she’s already proven her age, Penelope hesitates, and then confesses, “Actually, I think I might be done for the afternoon.” And then, though she can generally handle the attentions of the sort of man who tends to take an overbearing interest in her, she cautiously adds, “I did promise my boyfriend I’d bring him another shot.”

This doesn’t bother him in the least, and he points through the door behind her. “Oh, then you want the kitchen, though last I heard was that we’re starting to run a little low, so you better grab one quick if you wanna make good for your boy.”

“Thank you,” Penelope says sincerely, and then, a little hesitant, asks, “Is it all right that I brought him? I wasn’t personally invited, and I don’t really know anyone else, there was just a flier put up in my cafe, and he wanted to come.”

This apparently sparks some recognition for Barrett. “Oh! Bluebottle? Hey! I thought I recognized you. Did you bring your other friend? The dark-haired chick?”

Penelope shakes her head. “No, Moffie had to work. Did you put up the fliers?”

“Oh, nah, that was Marty.” Barret jerks a thumb over his shoulder towards the kitchen. “I’m on beer, he’s on jello shots, and we’re both just trying to keep it all a little bit on the saner side in here. You should let him know you came, he was wondering about it earlier.” He holds out his hand at this to make a proper introduction, despite the fact that they’ve lately exchanged IDs, and grins, “I’m Barry, by the way. And it’s fine you brought your boyfriend, especially if he’s more like your age than the rest of this crowd. Makes me feel a little less ancient.”

“Penny.” She shakes his hand, and gestures vaguely over her shoulder towards the parlour. “My boyfriend’s Gordon, if he’s been through here at all, though he’s not really much for beer, so perhaps he wouldn’t have been. We both had a day off today, and that _never_ happens, so it seemed like we should make the most of it.”

“Ha, aww. I know the feeling; my girlfriend’s French, we met when I was in the Peace Corps, then we fooled around Europe for a couple years after that, and now we’re doing the long-distance thing. Sometimes it seems like between the timezones and my school and her work, we just about never see each other.” He grins, and adds, beaming proudly, “Juliette’s a cargo pilot.”

With a similar little flash of pride, Penelope nods her acknowledgment and responds, “Gordon’s a paramedic. He’s telling horrible paramedic stories in the living room.”

Barret lights up at this, and exclaims, “Oh hot damn! Is he really? I’m looking at getting into EMS myself, I moved back home last year, went back to college just for the hell of it, just trying to figure out what I’m gonna do next. Was kinda thinking emergency services. I’m split between fire and ambulance right now, not sure which way I’ll go. If I can’t decide, I’ll probably open a taco truck.”

Penelope chuckles lightly at the serendipity of the coincidence. “Well, if you manage to catch him before he has _too_ much more to drink, he’ll certainly be happy to influence you his way. He loves his job.”

“That’d be awesome! He won’t mind?”

He absolutely will not, and Penelope is as certain of this as she is certain of the dawn every morning. “Not in the slightest, he’ll be thrilled. I’ll go and let him know someone’s interested in something other than the gory details of his particular trade, and I’m sure he’ll be happy to come chat. If you’d prefer to do it when he’s sober, I can probably put you in touch the next time he has some time off.”

“Drunk people tend to be a bit more honest. Bribe him with a jello shot,” Barry advises sagely.

She smiles archly at this and winks. “Oh, I generally have better methods than bribery to make him do what I want. In the interests of fair play, though, I should also tell you his older brother’s a firefighter. He’d also be happy to chip in his two cents, I’m sure.”

Barry does not believe her. “You’re kidding.”

Penelope shakes her head, smiling fondly. “Gordon has four brothers. The eldest three are a police officer, a dispatcher, and a firefighter, respectively. So obviously Gordon’s a paramedic.”

Barry believes her even less than before. “Pardon the language, Penny, but you understand how I _gotta_ call bullshit.”

Penelope laughs. “You can ask him yourself,” she suggests. “It _is_ funny how it all happened. But they really are a wonderful family. If you’re lucky enough to get to know Gordon, you might just get to know the rest of them. That’s what happened for me.”

“Oh, I’m gonna. Me and him are gonna need to have a discussion for _sure_ now. He sounds _interesting_, and I _love_ interesting people.” He gives her a wink of is own, friendly and jovial, and Penelope decides that she quite likes Barrett Bell. “Don’t really meet that many of 'em in this town.”

“Well,” Penelope answers primly, though she’s secretly extremely pleased to get to brag about her boyfriend to someone who seems appropriately impressed by him, “This one is mine.”

Barrett grins. “Oh, I bet he is. You don’t seem like the kinda person who’d settle for less. One day I’ll get Jules out here and bring her by your shop for coffee, so I can pay you back for the introduction. Now, please excuse how sexist it’s gonna sound, Penny, but get in the kitchen and get your man a drink, then send him my way. You’ve got me all excited about talking to another actual adult.”

“Well, ‘adult’ might be a bit strong.” Penelope laughs. “But I will. Be sure you ask him about the city councilman, the prostitute, and the shopvac. _Don’t_ let him lead with the one about the woodchipper, or you’ll end up with your taco truck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previous Comments:
> 
> https://imgur.com/jKgA4kh


	8. Chapter 8

Though she does intend to do exactly as she’s been told, if only for the reason that she was planning to do it anyway, Penelope can’t help but wryly reflect that even on her day off, somehow she’s still managed to end up serving drinks.

The kitchen is less crowded than it was, though there’s still a little knot of people clustered around the far end of the counter, picking at the remnants of the buffet. In the corner of the room, a garbage can towers past overflowing with discarded solo cups and paper plates. There’s a short line for the bathroom in the back hallway through the kitchen’s back door, but as near as Penelope can tell, no one’s discovered her secret hideaway on the back porch, and the back door remains firmly closed.

“Hey, English!”

Moffie’s crush on Marty is understandable. He’s tall and curly haired, freckled and handsome, and he’s currently in the process of rearranging the (substantially diminished) rainbow of jelly shots that still line the kitchen counters. He’s glanced up from this to take notice of Penelope, one of the first and only people at the party to do so, and he grins broadly at her. “You made it! Where’s Irish at?”

“Moffie had to work,” Penelope informs him, trying to sound appropriately regretful, and prudently adds, “I came with my boyfriend instead. I hope that’s all right? He’s been having a lovely time.”

There is no discernible disappointment in Marty’s bearing at the receipt of this news, which Penelope counts as a point in his favour. “Hey, the more the merrier! Glad he’s having fun. How 'bout _you_ though, English?” Marty fixes her with an evaluating stare, and comments, “You seem a little too sober to be really enjoying yourself.”

Penelope shrugs, diffident. “Oh, I’m fine. I might have one more drink or so, but I prefer to pace myself.”

“That’s fair. But hey, since you made it, and if you want—only if you want—” He turns on his heel towards the fridge and pulls this open. It is no longer jelly shots from front to back, though he pulls a crisper drawer open to reveal another couple dozen, and withdraws two of these, displaying them proudly. One is a pale, delicate green with a little curl of lime zest suspended inside, and the other is a rich, chocolately brown with a creamy layer of ivory on top and a drizzle of chocolate. “Gin and tonic.” Marty indicates the pale green shot. “And an Irish car bomb.” He proffers the other, and then almost shyly adds, “Towards the end, once I got the hang of it, I started getting a little more creative than just jello and vodka. What’s your pleasure?”

Penelope is frankly repulsed by both, knowing what she knows about gelatin and where it comes from—but it seems impolite to refuse something made especially for her, and automatic politesse overrides her mild disgust, as it has many times in the past. “Oh!” she exclaims with manufactured delight, as she selects the green shot in his left hand, adding, “It’s an absolute age since I had a good gin and tonic.”

Marty chuckles. “I can’t promise it’s a _good_ gin and tonic.”

“Well, I appreciate the gesture.” She pauses and delicately adds, “I don’t necessarily know if the same would’ve been true for Moffie. Generally those sorts of things are broadly considered to be in poor taste. At least where the Irish are concerned.”

“Ooh.” The other shot vanishes back in to the fridge and he slides the drawer prudently closed. “Noted.”

“Thank you, though, for this one.” Penelope has absolutely no intention of drinking (…eating?) it, but Marty doesn’t need to know that. “It’s nice to be thought of.”

“Sure! I really hoped you and her would come. You both deserve to have some fun. You two’re the only full-timers at Bluebottle, eh?”

Penelope nods, aware that she’s still awkwardly holding the little clear plastic shotglass she’s been given, and that she’ll need to make an exit soon before she’s expected to drink (eat??) it. Before the conversation can devolve too much further into small talk, she steps a little closer to the counter and picks up another shot, bright yellow, with a wilting little spray of whipped cream on top, adding, “For my boyfriend. Funny you mention Bluebottle. It’s my only day off this week, and somehow I’m still fetching drinks,” she jokes, handily seizing an excuse for why she hasn’t had her own shot yet, and why she needs to leave before she does. “Thank you again, Marty. I’ll let Moffie know she was missed.”

“Sure thing, English! See ya 'round.”

The whole first floor of the house connects all together, such that the back hallway adjoins the living room, which adjoins the front parlour in turn. Penelope slips past her secret sanctuary with only the faintest twinge of regretful longing, though she could consider herself to have finally settled into the rhythm of the party at large, and no longer considers escape a necessity. In the living room, the cluster of people around the couch and the coffee table has diminished slightly, and their attentions have diverted elsewhere. Gordon’s still in the armchair where she left him, no longer sitting up properly, but settled sideways with one leg cocked up over one armrest, and his head tilted back against the other, browsing idly through his phone.

Penelope has swept into a ballroom on the arm of an actual prince, sparking rumours all throughout the European gossip press. She’s attended red carpet London Premieres in the company of movie stars, musicians. She’s been invited to the private homes and parties of celebrities the world over. And no one she’s encountered in the whole of her glamorous, glittering youth has ever made her breath catch and her heart skip a beat the way this blond boy from Kansas can, caught in an unguarded moment, in nothing better than a t-shirt and jeans. It’s gone from early to late afternoon, and the way the sunlight falls through the windows of the house finds him at just the right angle, so that his hair flashes dusty gold and the amber in his eyes catches fire, as he glances up to notice her standing at the edge of the carpet, and smiles.


	9. Chapter 9

It used to be hard for Penelope to believe everything she’d left behind, given up and thrown away when she left London. Wealth, family, status—her entire fortune and her entire future. These days it’s impossible to believe that she’d done it without knowing that Gordon was waiting for her, perfect and improbable, because for his sake—for _their_ sake—she knows now that she would burn it all down all over again, without even the slightest hesitation.

“Hello,” she says, incongruently shy in the way only he ever makes her.

“Hi,” he says, with a little beckoning wave, as he shifts slightly where he sits and holds out a hand as she approaches. He ignores the shot she offers him, instead hooking his first two fingers through one of her belt loops and pulling her into his lap, snug and secure, as his hands find some of his (and her) favourite places on her body. “D’you know about how you’re fuckin’ _gorgeous_, Pen?”

Penelope has heard variations upon this fact from assorted sources since she was approximately fourteen years old. Over a decade later, and it gives her a delicious little shiver of pleasure when Gordon says so, and she feels herself smile at him. “Only when you tell me,” she answers lightly, with an honesty he’ll probably never understand.

“S’cuz of how you _really_ are.”

“Thank you,” she answers, pleased. “So are you.”

“Nah.”

“Mmhm.” Her habitual gesture is to flick the tip of his nose when he’s being especially adorable, but both her hands are presently occupied, so she taps the lemon yellow shot against the crooked bridge of it instead, and informs him, “I don’t know if you should have both of these, but I _do_ know I don’t want either.”

Gordon does not seem to consider this a problem. “Gimme. Please. What’s the green one?”

Penelope peers at the slightly cloudy shot, with its little curl of lime zest, and hands it over. “Gin and tonic, apparently.”

“Never had one.”

“I like them,” Penelope says, shrugging, because she’s fairly certain that Gordon won’t. “I always think I want to buy gin and make them in the summer, but I had one the last time we went out for drinks, and there’s something simply hideous about what Americans do to tonic water.”

“Hmm. Well, lemme see—” The process of downing a jello shot is an inelegant one, and Penelope wrinkles her nose as Gordon does. To be fair, he seems equally as displeased with the little G&T shot, all but gagging as he flips the little plastic cup over his shoulder in disgust. “_No_,” he protests dramatically. “That’s just _god_awful. Tastes like _floor cleaner_. Gimme the other one?”

With a fingertip, Penelope scoops the little rosebud of whipped cream off the top of the other shot before handing it over. It’s sweet and slightly greasy on her tongue, with just the faintest hint of lemon from the jelly beneath it. The second shot vanishes in a similar fashion to the first, and another little plastic cup goes flying over Gordon’s shoulder to clatter hollowly on the hardwood. He sighs, contented, and tips his head back against the armrest again, closing his eyes.

Penelope watches him for a few moments, before softly asking, “Are you okay?”

He nods, but doesn’t open his eyes, smiling faintly. “Mmhm. M’good. Nice day. Free booze. Nobody puked on me. Yeah. 'm pretty good.”

Gordon can’t see her, but Penelope smiles fondly, reaches over to brush her fingers through his hair. “I’m glad.”

“How 'bout you?”

Penelope shrugs, shifting on his lap. “Oh, I’m fine.”

He opens his eyes at this and sits up again, fixing her with a suddenly evaluating stare. Even when moderately drunk—maybe especially when moderately drunk—Gordon sometimes possesses a perspicacity about her feelings that surprises her. “Just fine?” he probes.

“Just fine.”

He frowns at this and makes a vague gesture that seems to encapsulate the entire house and the party around them, as he surmises, “'Cuz of how it’s kinda really not your kinda scene, though, is it?”

“No,” she answers frankly, truthful but untroubled, leaning into him and resting her head against his shoulder with a soft sigh. “But I’m glad _you_ enjoyed yourself. You deserve a day to relax. I’m happy we came.”

Gordon squints at her and then draws a conclusion of his own. “But except for how I’ve been _kind of_ a bastard though.”

“You haven’t!” Penelope protests immediately, and hates to think she might’ve made him feel that way. “Gordon, darling, of course you haven’t.”

“Mmm, but yeah though, kinda I _have_? ‘Cuz we rocked up here and basically I _ditched_ you and we’ve been here like a coupla hours and me n’ you’ve barely even _seen_ each other and _that_ is kinda some bullshit, Pen. On our day off?” He shakes his head, clearly disappointed in himself, as he concludes, “_Exactly_ like a bastard.”

Penelope lifts her face to kiss his jaw, reaching for one of his hands where it still rests at her waist and gently squeezing his fingers. “I really don’t mind,” she says, softly, sincerely, but there’ll be no changing his mind on the subject. “I like to see you happy, love.”

“Well, but y’know about how that’s mutual, though.”

Penelope shrugs. “I’m not _un_happy. If you feel the need to make it up to me, perhaps it’s time we went home. As I recall, you promised you could fix my sink, drunk, stood on one foot, blindfolded, and with one hand tied behind your back.”

Gordon blinks at her and narrows his eyes slightly. “…did I say blindfolded?”

Archly, with wicked and unsubtle intent, Penelope goes on, “Perhaps not. But then, perhaps I just enjoy the notion of you, all tied up and blindfolded.”

This takes a second to penetrate, but when it does, that crooked grin resurfaces, along with a note of unmistakable intrigue. “…ooh. Okay.”

The party seems to be winding down around them. The music’s grown quieter, even though she’d gotten used to the volume, and the initial pressgang of partygoers seems to have diminished into smaller clusters of people who’ve stayed to socialize, chatting and drinking. Penelope’s still happy to have had her fill of the place. And the prospect of an intimate evening back at her apartment has suddenly grown quite tempting. “Let’s go home.”

“Yeah, kinda think maybe we better.”

Penelope nods her agreement, and with the assistance of Gordon’s hand on her elbow, she levers herself out of his lap and the chair, standing and stretching and shaking her hair over her shoulders as she pulls it up into a ponytail with a hairtie she wears looped around her wrist. “Oh, but I do need to introduce you to someone before we go,” she comments idly, holding out a hand to pull him to his feet.

Gordon outweighs her by at least fifty pounds, and once he’s standing, a little unsteadily, he’s fully half a foot taller than she is. His arm falls around her shoulders as hers wraps automatically around his waist. “Do I need to make a good impression?” he asks, and Penelope feels it when he sways slightly, and then rubs a hand through his hair. “I’m kinda drunk,” he explains, unnecessarily.

“Not especially, darling. I just met someone who’s interested in getting into your line of work. I thought you could give him your number.”

Gordon blinks. “Oh yeah? 'Cuz I think between the chainsaw story and the woodchipper story, kinda maybe I mighta scared a whole _buncha_ dumbass kids outta my line of work.”

Penelope shakes her head wryly. “Well, by what I can tell, he’s neither a dumbass nor a kid. His name is Barry, he was in the Peace Corps. He’s the one manning the keg. I thought you might introduce yourself. I told him you’d be happy to chat sometime.”

“Well, sure.” This is followed by a little hiccup and another slight waver of his balance. “Mmmaybe better wait 'til I’m sober, though? For Barney. Those coupla shots’re gonna hit in like twenty minutes and _then_ I am gonna prob’ly be kinda _really_ drunk.”

Penelope winces. “Darling,” she sighs, and checks her hip lightly against his, nudging him towards the door through to the parlor. He stumbles obediently along and she feels it’s only prudent to inquire, “Are you worse off than that one time with Virgil?”

The mere mention of “_that one time with Virgil_” is enough that she can watch the colour drain from Gordon’s face at the memory and he gives a sober (figuratively) shake of his head. “I’m never, _ever_ gonna get _that_ drunk again. _Never_. Learned my lesson. I don’t even re_member_ anything 'bout _‘that one time with Virgil’_ 'cept for that.”

That’s reassuring, at least. Penelope shifts her shoulders beneath the weight he’s leaned against her, whether he knows he has or not. “That was the last day off we had together,” she muses idly at the memory. “I told your supervisor you’d gotten food poisoning.”

“And then you stayed home.”

“Because you were too hungover to move,” Penelope concludes and with her hands free again, reaches up to fondly flick the tip of his nose.

Gordon leans into her again, but this time it’s a clumsy kind of half-hug, and a warm, wholly genuine kiss against her temple. “You’re _way_ too good to me.”

“You pull people out of woodchippers, my love. _Someone_ ought to be good to you.”

“_One_ guy outta _one_ woodchipper.”

“Still.”

“That dumbass motherfucker _lived_, Pen. D’you know ‘bout how I am _so_ fuckin’ good at my job, Penelope, because I _totally_ saved that stupid idiot son of a bitch.”

Gordon won’t admit the fact that he’s paid for this man’s life in a sum of nightmares, but Penelope nods her solemn agreement, reaching up to pat his chest, two gentle taps of acknowledgment, hoping to head off any repetition of the goriest details of the woodchippper story. “I know, dearest. It’s a lovely, uplifting, horrible, horrible, _horrible_ story. Make sure you tell it to Barry. Perhaps not now. I’m going to go outside and call us a cab, I think. Divide and conquer, my darling, if you can stagger off on your own and give your details to the mustachey gentleman with the giant keg in the kiddie pool, then I’ll go out front and get us a ride home before you keel over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previous Comments:
> 
> https://imgur.com/4zU88ug


	10. Chapter 10

The cab pulls up in front of the house before Gordon comes out of it. It’s been ten minutes, and without him, Penelope doesn’t know quite what to do. Out of minutes with which to call him, she glances down at her phone and the two unanswered texts she’s sent her boyfriend, hastily tapping out a third to let him know their ride has arrived. Her phone’s battery has dipped down below ten percent and she hates to keep using it. This seems silly. From the front steps of the house, she’s near enough that she could probably shout over her shoulder for him, calling through the open doorway, and reasonably expect him to hear her. She doesn’t. Instead she sits on the porch, studiously pretending she hasn’t called a cab, until another ten minutes pass, the driver departs in frustration, and Penelope’s left sitting on the front steps, feeling foolish and embarrassed and vaguely annoyed with Gordon.

She dusts off the seat of her pants as she stands up, with no other recourse but to slip back into the house, looking for her wayward other half. Hours on, the party isn’t what it was, a far cry from the raucous gathering it had been on arrival, but there people still linger. Knowing Gordon, he’s gotten socially entangled with Barry or some other naively aspiring paramedic and lost track of time. Or he’s found some poor unfortunate with alcohol poisoning, in need of medical attention. It occurs to Penelope that twenty minutes on from when she’d seen him last, those last two shots have probably done their work, and this time Gordon might _be_ the poor unfortunate in need of medical attention. She bites her lower lip as she makes a circuit of the main floor, hoping that this isn’t the case.

He hasn’t gotten snarled up in any of the remaining little clusters of partygoers, still occupying the parlor and living room. She doesn’t find him with his head caught in the toilet of the back hallway bathroom, nor in the kitchen. When she circles back to the dining room, she finds Barry redistributing beer bottles into coolers, consolidating the leftovers—and while she finds him also newly possessed of Gordon’s phone number, she doesn’t find Gordon, nor does Barry know where he might have wound up.

Returning to the front hallway again, Penelope must look just as lost as she feels, staring blankly at the screen of her dying phone and wondering where the hell Gordon could have gotten to, because she doesn’t notice Marty until he taps her shoulder, reaching over the banister from where he stands on the stairs. He grins when he gets her attention.

“Hey, English! What’s the matter, you get ditched? How was your shot?”

Penelope looks up, blinking, and answers the questions automatically, vaguely distracted, in the order they occur to her, “What? Ditched? No. And fine. It was fine. I’ve not been _ditched_—but I think I may have gotten…misplaced, somewhat. Did you come from upstairs? Is anyone up there? Only I can’t seem to find my boyfriend.”

Marty quirks his head and takes a half step back up the staircase, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, even as he shakes his head. " No? I mean…nah. No one who shouldn’t be. Don’t think so, anyway. Uh, unless maybe in the bathroom? I wasn’t looking, though, and I wouldn’t know him to see him. It’s all bedrooms upstairs, mostly off-limits, I was just making sure nobody wound up where they shouldn’t be. You can come up, though, if you wanna look. There’s another bathroom up here, then one more in the attic. A few people came up when the main floor bathroom was busy. Easy enough to check. C’mon."

“Oh, thank you. I’m sure he must have just gone upstairs.” It seems the only logical place Gordon _could_ have gone, because he certainly isn’t on the main floor, and he hasn’t left by the front door. Not while Penelope was waiting outside, at least. She drops her phone back into her pocket, and follows Marty briskly up the curving stairway.

The second floor is quieter than the first, not that the first was nearly as loud as it had been to begin with. The hallway is dim but for a window at one end, and otherwise nothing but firmly closed doors—one with a coat hanger dangling from the handle, another similarly adorned with a sock—and empty. Penelope’s heart sinks slightly, but Marty stops at one door, and then waves her on towards the end of the hallway, and a rather narrower door waiting there.

“I’ll check this bathroom, if you wanna check the penthouse,” he suggests. “Been a few people went all the way up to the attic bathroom already today. D’you think he’s got sick? Those stairs are easier to manage going up than down, if you’ve had a few too many. Maybe he needs help.”

“…Right,” Penelope agrees, but doubtfully, because she doesn’t have any sense of Gordon’s presence on the second floor, and in the quiet stillness is starting to wonder if she might somehow have missed him on the first. If this isn’t all just some Benny Hill style farce of circuity that she’s managed to miss the punchline for. Still. It doesn’t hurt to be thorough, and she makes her way obediently to the end of the hallway, and then through the narrow door.

It opens onto a claustrophobically small landing, leading onto a precipitously steep and narrow stairway, exactly the sort that would be difficult to traverse while drunk. There’s light overhead, the right color for daylight, but the sort of daylight that’s gotten into somewhere it doesn’t belong, through dormered attic windows. This alone is enough to give her a moment’s trepidatious pause, but there are fewer than a dozen stairs to the top, and it can’t hurt just to check. Penelope clambers upward.

“Gordon?”

She calls his name softly at the top of the stairs, but the attic apartment is visibly empty even as she reaches the top. _Penthouse_ is a fratboy’s ironically generous label for the space—it’s been finished only to a bare minimum. The roof overhead is bare rafters, and the floor is carpeted by a handful of mismatched rugs, tucked beneath a mattress and boxspring. This, the only piece of furniture, sits square in the middle of the room, loosely dressed with sheets and blankets, and set atop a cheap metal bedframe. A few flags and pennants for the local college sports teams half-heartedly hang from the rafters. Motes of dust flat in the air, lit by daylight, trespassing through the windows tucked beneath the eaves. The bathroom, presumably, is the awkwardly constructed cubicle boxing in one of these, bare drywall, clearly a late and unfinished addition. The door is closed, and though Penelope does her due diligence in approaching to knock, she can already tell there’s no one inside. She pushes on the door and finds it unlatched, and the room behind it empty. Gordon isn’t here.

She’s starting to really worry about him, and this anxiety is what swallows up her own sense of nascent unease about her current environment. Instead she takes a moment to indulge in its silence and privacy, beginning to pace as she tries to think. The floorboards creak beneath her feet except where the dusty carpet muffles her steps. Her hand returns to her pocket, pulling out her phone. She hopes it hasn’t died before she could receive a message from him, assuring her that all’s well and he’s waiting on the front steps—but there’s nothing on her home screen but a warning about her last five percent of battery life. Exponentially more nervous about five percent than she was about ten, Penelope bites her lower lip and tries in vain to come up with an explanation for where the hell Gordon could’ve gone.

Maybe he’s outside. Maybe she just missed him in her circuit of the main floor, and if she peers out the window facing the front of the house, she’ll be able to look down to the yard and see him. She crosses the attic floor to the little alcove with the south facing window and leans forward to peer outside. From the third floor she can see the terraced front lawn, the front walk sloping down from the front steps, and three or four people lingering outside—but before she can even notice whether any of them are blond, male, and obviously looking for her, someone grabs her, roughly, from behind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> https://imgur.com/Ltx61TR


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of those chapters which should in theory cause every component piece of the puzzle constructed in the previous few chapters to land and click solidly into place, in such a way that my readers can solve the mystery long before my characters can, and will therefore get to enjoy watching the answer unfold in the story itself. Also, the warning exists right below, but I'll repeat it here: this chapter requires a trigger warning for an attempted assault.

**_(tw: assault)_ **

Once upon a time, Penelope’s was not a life where anyone _ever_ laid a hand on her without explicit permission.

Her short, if edifying, career in waitressing has changed that.

Even so, her instincts are not calibrated for being roughly handled by anyone. Penelope feels the bite of fingers, firm and fierce around her upper right arm, while another hand clamps over her mouth, she tastes the salt of someone else’s skin against her lips as she tries to scream. Her sense of balance is thrown off as she’s dragged backward, and she hears the silk of her shirt tear just slightly as she resists, and then the clatter of her phone as it bounces off the uncarpeted floor. The low heels of her boots snag on the edge of one of the mismatched rugs, and this infinitesimal pause in the horror of what’s happening is enough for her to realize what exactly _is_ happening.

And she’s lucky that her first reaction is pure, white hot fury.

Penelope has no reason to know why the person who’s grabbed her would expect anything _less_ than her immediate, violent resistance. They certainly seem startled when her free hand stops flailing for balance and fumbles up over her shoulder, her fingers catching a handful of hair, tight against her assailant’s scalp. Penelope clenches her fist in response to a startled grunt of pain, which rises into a barely stifled shriek of agony as she lets her weight drop, fistful of hair still tight between her fingers as her knees hit the ground. The hand covering her mouth slips loose and fingers scrabble at the wrist of her still clenched fist. She twists her hand viciously in the same moment that she gains some leverage against the floor, enough to start to squirm and twist against his grip, struggling and kicking and swearing in between gasping breaths. It’s pure, merciful luck when one of her feet kicks hard enough to connect with soft, sensitive flesh, and her attacker loses his grip with a sharp yelp of actual injury.

The world has grown small around her and her objectives within it have gained an intensity of focus. The only places she can be are here or not here; the only people in the world are her and her attacker; and her only goal is to get as far away from this person and this place as she can, as fast as possible, and to find somewhere safe.

Penelope doesn’t even make it back to her feet before she makes it to the stairwell, on her hands and knees until she can catch hold of the hand rail to pull herself up. She doesn’t look back as she finds purchase, stumbling down the steep attic steps and through the narrow door. Another coat hanger clatters to the floor as it swings open, but Penelope’s already at the top of the stairs at the other end of the hallway by the time she registers this detail. She manages to catch the banister to steady herself, slowing down only slightly as she staggers and nearly trips on her way back down to the main floor. She has to stop herself from taking the steps two at a time, because she can feel her whole body trembling with the rush of adrenaline, already growing bitter between her teeth.

As she reaches the front hall at the bottom of stairway, she veers sharply away from the open front door. Fight and flight accomplished, Penelope’s next desperate desire is to _hide_, to shake the sensation of someone behind her, chasing her—and she can think of only one place to do that. The front yard is too obvious and exposed, and she has nowhere to go from there. Escape isn’t an option—even now, in the back of her brain she knows she can’t leave without Gordon—and so until she can collect herself, she needs somewhere safe to do so. There’s only one place she can think of.

Penelope hopes her face is a mask as she slips through the parlor, and then the living room beyond it. Even if she looks as frightened as she feels, she doesn’t want anyone to stop her on her way to the dubious safety of her sanctuary. Perhaps automatically, she scans both rooms for any sign of Gordon, but doesn’t find him. She doesn’t spare a moment to check the back hallway bathroom, too overwhelmed with relief at the sight of the waiting back door and the tenuous safety beyond. Her knees almost buckle as she comes to a stop, her breath doubles and catches in her chest, and her hands are shaking as she clasps the handle of the back door onto the screened in porch.

It feels like it takes all of her body weight to lean against the door and shove it open, but truthfully she only opens it just wide enough to slip through and then slam it closed behind her, slumping backwards with her back pressed hard against it, as though it’s all that keeps her from sinking to the floor. Her eyes have shut tight and her breath still comes in feeble, catching gasps—but very, very slowly, as a long, empty minute stretches past, Penelope begins to calm down.

Steady, practical mindfulness takes hold. With her eyes still closed, she feels the texture of the door against her back, the rough grain of the wood catching strands of her hair where the paint has chipped and flecked away. She feels the creaky solidity of the porch beneath her feet, the stillness of the air, the distant sounds of the city, audible through the battered screens that enclose the porch. Distantly, she notices the way her Givenchy blouse no longer fits quite right, slipping loose over her shoulder where it was torn. To her left she hears and feels the warding bulk of the old vintage refrigerator, tucked up beside the back door. It hums and buzzes audibly in the silence of the porch, and she feels the heat radiating from the coils in the back. She remembers the treasure trove of water bottles inside and decides that a drink would probably help steady her nerves.

Opening her eyes with a final, shaky deep breath, she pushes off the door. Glancing at the fridge, she finds her empty bottle of Guinness from hours ago still resting on the top, the fridge door propped a few inches open, caught on something. This strikes her as odd, until she steps out, past the bulk of the appliance, to discover why.

And finally finds Gordon, in the only place she hadn’t thought to look, crumpled on the floor and dead to the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previous Comments:
> 
> https://imgur.com/njZUJ8a


	12. Chapter 12

Something is terribly wrong.

And there’s an answer lurking here, a single fact that explains everything that’s happened, clarifies the questions of how and why, and totals up all of the ways she could have—should have—seen something like this coming.

Questions of how and why this has happened are currently secondary to what Penelope needs to do about it.

The back porch is narrow, crowded and cluttered with whatever nonsense is stored back here, and Gordon’s fallen bonelessly to the floor. Halfway lying on his side, he’s an untidy tangle of limbs, haphazard and unnaturally still. It’s emphatically _not_ the “found somewhere passably comfortable, sat down for too long, and was just drunk enough to doze off” sort of state than she’s seen him in before. In such a confined space, the swing of the fridge door is wide enough to make it awkward to get past and Penelope shoves it closed with a puff of cool air. Her knees hit bare wood for the second time in only five minutes, but now it’s with a different kind of desperate urgency.

“…Gordon? _Gordon_!”

Saying his name gets no response, nor does shouting it. Neither does seizing hold of his shoulder and roughly shaking him. She remembers a little too late that she’s not meant to move anyone with a potentially unidentified spinal injury more than absolutely necessary, and so her hand darts to clasp his wrist instead, and she finds his skin distressingly cool, in the same moment that she gets down to crouch closer, leaning over to listen for the sound of his breathing. The humming sound of the fridge drowns anything else out, such that her heart seizes with terror at the thought that he might not _be_ breathing. She can’t quite stifle a fearful little whimper of dread as she brings her fingers close to his nose and mouth, feels just the slightest warmth, the barest movement of air against her skin. He’s still breathing, but only just. Beneath her fingers clutching his wrist, she can feel the sluggish throb of his pulse. Whether this is alcohol poisoning or something worse, the next thing Penelope needs to do is call an ambulance.

Her own phone is gone, dropped and abandoned on the floor of the attic and probably dead by now, but she has the presence of mind to reach into Gordon’s pocket for his—an older flip phone, cheap, with a hinge that’s grown loose and floppy over time, and a screen with a constellation of dead pixels scattered across its face—and with it, she dials emergency services. She still clings to his wrist, but when she adjusts her grip so she can pull his hand into her lap, there’s the jarring sensation of shifting dead weight, limp and unresistant. As the line rings, she remembers waking up beside him only just this morning, and the way he’d softly sighed and drawn her closer, reactive to her presence even from the depths of a dead sleep. Not so now. Now, the comparison with her memory of this morning is enough to start tears streaming down her cheeks, even as the call connects.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

The voice on the other end of the line is deep, but with a lilting, almost melodic quality and a rounded, rolling accent. There’s something bluff, almost cheerful about the operator’s tone, at odds with the severity of the situation, but comforting somehow.

“Something’s wrong with my boyfriend. I found him lying on the floor and he won’t wake up.”

Even as she says this, she feels panic starting to swell up inside her, because saying it out loud to a stranger makes the situation real; demands acknowledgment of the fact that her boyfriend is currently unconscious and barely breathing on the floor, and that nothing she’s done so far has changed this. She’s stumbled from one nightmare into another, and this one is bad enough that she’s forced to forget the one she’d fled from in the first place.

“What’s your location, miss?”

This is the most important question, and Penelope doesn’t know the answer. “I don’t know the address. We—it’s a party, we went to a party off campus, it’s a fraternity house. It’s…it’s a big house right on the corner, it’s light green? I think it’s on Elm Street. Elm and Jackson? Jefferson? It’s right off the university campus.” None of this information seems helpful, until her gaze falls across the storage room to a dusty and tattered old banner, with the appropriate letters printed on it. “…Pi Zeta Tau? I’m sorry. I-I’m so sorry, I know it’s important—I don’t know what else—”

“It’s enough.” There’s a calming, reassuring quality to the voice, as the operator answers, “We know it, lass, no fear. I’ve an ambulance on the way. Tell me more about your boyfriend, how old is he?”

“Twenty-four.” She refrains from mentioning that twenty-four is far too young for anyone to die, because surely this is obvious and also it simply isn’t going to happen.

“Twenty-four year old male—unresponsive? Is he breathing?”

“I can’t wake him up,” Penelope repeats, still clutching Gordon’s hand where it rests in her lap. It’s hard to convey just how different this is from finding him asleep, or even passed out drunk. Both of those states are within the realm of Penelope’s experience with Gordon. This is different. “He’s breathing, but only just barely. His hands are like _ice_, and he…it looks like he fell? I don’t know. I don’t _know_, we were supposed to be leaving, but I couldn’t find him. I don’t know how long he’s been here like this.”

“You mentioned a party—has he been drinking?”

“Yes. Beer and a few shots, but usually he knows how to pace himself. This isn’t like him.” Penelope wishes she’d kept better track, but she didn’t think she’d needed to. A plaintive whimper of protest creeps into her tone, as she laments, “He’s a paramedic, he knows better than to drink 'til he blacks out. Something’s wrong.”

“Would he have had anything other than alcohol?”

This is absolutely antithetical to everything Penelope knows about Gordon, and she doesn’t believe it would’ve happened. “_No_. No, he wouldn’t.”

“Where did you find him? It’s a house party—bedroom, bathroom?”

Even as he asks, Penelope hears the distant sound of an ambulance siren. For the past year and a half the sound of ambulances has made her think of Gordon. In a city this size, it’s just a statistical probability that sometimes in the middle of her day, she’ll hear him going about his. “…are they close? Oh, please, will they be here soon?”

“A few more minutes. Where in the house are you?”

“There’s a back door, a back porch. They can’t get to it from outside, the stairs are gone. They’ll need to come through the front door, it’s open. Can they hurry?”

“They’ll be there soon. Is he injured at all that you can see? Is he lying flat?”

“No. He’s on his side, his right side. It looks like he fell, but I don’t see anywhere he could have hit his head.”

“How’s his breathing?”

Penelope leans over him to check again, the backs of her fingers ghosting his lips, slightly parted. “The same. What should I do?”

“Keep him still for now, let me know if anything changes. Ambulance should be pulling up in another minute or so. What’s your name, dear?”

The sirens have grown louder still, and Penelope breathes a shaky sigh, before she can answer. “Penelope. He’s Gordon. Which dispatch center is this, is John there? John Tracy?”

For the first time, the dispatcher’s answer isn’t prompt and reassuring, and there’s a confused beat of silence, “Ma’am? Say again?”

Penelope repeats herself, “If John Tracy works in your office, this is his brother.”

“Oh?” There’s another pause as this information is processed. " …_Oh_! Gordon _Tracy_, bloody hell. Right—and you’d said he’s a paramedic…we’ll let John know, lass. No fear now, love, they’ve just pulled up outside. Can you open any doors between you and them?"

“Yes.”

The sound of the sirens has stopped. The door is only a few feet distant, but in present circumstances it’s far enough that she needs to tear herself away from Gordon, afraid to leave him. Her knees nearly buckle with the way she starts to tremble as she stands. The torn sleeve of her shirt has slipped down past her shoulder again, and her hair is tousled and her eyes are still teary, and she freezes up for an agonizing moment as she faces the door, assailed by the memory of what she’d fled from on the other side of it. But she can hear a muffled babble of voices on the other side, presumably reacting to the arrival of the ambulance, and so she steels herself, and opens the door.

Immediately the sounds of the house flood her awareness, and Penelope steps hesitantly into the back hallway, in the same moment that Barry steps out of the kitchen, beckoning over his shoulder to a pair of paramedics, two women in dark uniforms, one young and slender, one older and stocky, with an expression that brooks no nonsense. Penelope nearly melts with relief at the sight of them.

“Here,” she breathes, half into the phone she only just realizes she’s still holding, and half to the people who’ve arrived to help, as Barry rushes quickly forward and gently shepherds her out of the way of the back door. “They’re here.”

“Good, good girl. You’re in safe hands now, lass. I’m going to let you go and talk to the medics now. Take care, dear.”

“Thank you,” Penelope says faintly, sincerely, but still wilting against the wall as the two paramedics rattle in with a gurney, and get brusquely down to business.


End file.
